


Eris's Bridegroom: 002 Middles

by abundantlyqueer



Series: Eris's Bridegroom [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>”You aren’t haunted by the war. You miss it.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Eris's Bridegroom: 002 Middles

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘100 prompts’ thingie, done to the tune of John’s experiences in Afghanistan.
> 
> Buyer beware, the sum total of this is going to be bare-faced glamorization of war and the (mostly) men who have loved her.

The three of them crouch-run across the dirt-surfaced street to the shelter of a cinder-block wall. John leans his left shoulder to the dusty wall and rolls his weight forward cautiously, just dipping his face around the corner.

“What can you see?” Blackwood asks from just behind him.

There’s a flurry of sharp cracks, and John jerks back into Blackwood as the other side of the wall spews dust and fragments of concrete.

“Blokes with guns,” John says.

Henn sniggers.

Then there’s a whoosh of air and a monstrous bang, and John’s thrown back off his feet as the air fills with concrete dust and smoke. He hits the ground back first, his breath snapping out of his lungs with the impact. He rolls onto his knees, exultantly aware that except for his chest screaming in desperation, he’s fine. Henn’s still on his feet, and helping Blackwood up with one hand even as he looks towards John. John nods vigorously to indicate that he’s unhurt, while the black void in his chest turns hot red and then everything snaps open and the air surges back in like a dam bursting. He coughs, gasps, climbs back onto his feet.

“Correction, blokes with guns and an RPG,” he says, his voice a little thick and shaky.

“God, I hate this shit,” Henn says without heat.

John tucks the stock of his rifle into his shoulder as he moves to the corner again.

“Three, two, one,” he says.

The three of them step out from cover, John upright and close to the wall, Blackwood and Henn crouching but a little more in the open. John’s trigger finger pulses as he fires in short bursts. The recoil of his rifle is a solid, bone-deep beat through his shoulder and chest, slower and steadier than his own heartbeat.

“Cover!” he shouts after several seconds.

They back up again.

“Roof of the building with the awning, diagonal left on the other side of the street,” John says, turning his face aside from another scatter of debris as rounds continue to hit the other side of the wall. “I’m going over.”

Henn passes him a grenade, which John tucks tightly into the canvas cover of his body armor.

“Three, two, one.”

John’s out and running with his head down, while Blackwood and Henn fire shorts bursts to cover him. A couple of rounds kick the dirt behind him, and the nerves in the backs of his legs seem to light up in reaction, and he throws himself forwards, rolling, and coming up onto his feet in the shadow of the awning. He ducks round the corner, pulls the grenade out and pops the pin. He turns, steps back, and he’s exposed but Henn and Blackwood are firing steadily. John lofts his left arm and the grenade arcs steep and high, over the wall surrounding the flat roof of the building. He throws himself back onto the wall and drops to his haunches, head down and hands over his ears.

The explosion beats through his body, the wall at his back jumping. Bits of plaster and broken concrete rain around him, hard enough to hurt when they hit but not enough to do any damage. He blinks the dust out of his eyes and squints across to the street. Henn’s on one knee with his rifle raised, while Blackwood gives a thumbs-up and then beckons for John to come back. John stands up, debris dropping from his clothing as he straightens. He keeps his head down as he jogs back across the street.

“Topping bowling, old man,” Blackwood says in a farcically plumy accent.

John slaps some of the finer dust off his hands and wipes his cheek on the shoulder of his body armor.

“What’s next?” Henn says.

John glances back across the street, at the semi-demolished upper wall and the fallen and twisted awning.

“Floor by floor,” he says grimly.

“Ripping,” Blackwood says with elaboration enunciation.

“Are you going to keep that up for long?” John asks dubiously, as he drops the empty magazine from his rifle and smacks a fresh one into place.

“Yars and yars,” Blackwood says.

“It’s not the job I mind,” John says, as he tucks his rifle into his shoulder again. “It’s the bloody co-workers … right … three, two, one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Um, just an assurance that it's not ignorance that has me depicting 'army doctor' John acting as point on a fire-team? My argument will (hopefully) become clear as we go along, and then you can buy it or not as you see fit.


End file.
